


Turn and Face the Strange

by RC_McLachlan



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic, M/M, Post-Chapter 700
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:59:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/pseuds/RC_McLachlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Konohamaru takes one look at it and says, "I am <em>not</em> using that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn and Face the Strange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alestar/gifts).



> Alestar, remember when you asked me to write you a Konohamaru/Udon drabble for your birthday? I got a little carried away. Happy (early) birthday, m'dear! Hope to see you soon. <3

When they finally unveil it, Udon makes a sound like it's been punched out of him, shocky and breathless, and one of his hands lifts to curl around his throat to prevent anything more. Or just to have something to hold onto. Sunlight slips through the open blinds and glints joyfully off the chrome, drawing his eye to the place where plastic meets metal and sweetly curves into two beautiful hinge joints, and then someone has to take it a step further and part it, opening it with an obscene whisper, displaying raised buttons like gooseflesh, begging for his fingers, for a stroke, a tap, anything. He swallows hard when the press of a finger elicits a song, soft and sultry, a moan, and it lights up under that deft touch.

It's the sexiest thing he's ever seen.

Konohamaru takes one look at it and says, "I am _not_ using that."

Their KenTech liaison, Shinju, with her odd, severe hair and pressed suit, cuts Konohamaru a look that must usually stop people in their tracks at several paces. If she were a ninja, they'd all no doubt be knocked flat by her killing intent. "Despite its unfamiliar appearance, the user interface is very intuitive. You shinobi are renown for your ability to adapt, no? I have no doubt that you will easily learn to navigate the—"

"It could spit ryo and jerk you off, and I'd _still_ never want to use it," Konohamaru snaps, spinning on his heel to flail an arm at the Hokage. "Naruto-niichan, you _can't_ be serious!"

Like a reflex, a fist comes winging out of nowhere and nails Konohamaru in the back of the head so hard he bends at the waist. Flexing her fingers, Moegi exchanges a well-loved, long-suffering look with Udon, and then snaps, "Don't refer to your Hokage so informally, jackass."

Konohamaru somehow manages an eyeroll through the rictus of pain. "Sorry. _Grand High Hokage-sama_ , _lord of all that is awesome, ramen-eating champion of the last six years_ , you can't be serious."

Naruto shrugs and scratches the back of his neck, a crease of mild confusion between his brows. "Sakura has 'em at the hospital already, and Udon says there's a thing—"

"A program," Udon supplies helpfully. Konohamaru shoots him a nasty glare.

"—yeah, a program that'll cut, like, hours out of mission reporting and filing."

"We've run out of space to store the reports," Shikamaru says. He glances at the screen with more interest than he reserves for most things and then pokes it. It pings at his touch, and his permanent scowl eases a little. "It's very responsive."

Peering over his shoulder, Temari smirks a little, her face lit up by the screen. "Fast, too. Quiet. I bet you could do all sorts of things with this before you were detected."

At that, Shikamaru cracks a grin.

Shinju gives a pleased smile and nods. "Touch screens come standard with the newer models. Instead of relying on a mouse, you can complete most—if not all—tasks with a quick swipe and tap of your fingers."

There aren't words to describe the look of horror that crosses Konohamaru's face at that. "Rely on a _what_? A _mouse_? The hell does a rat have to do with this–this… what is this again?"

"A computer, Konohamaru-kun," Udon says. He brushes past Shikamaru and bends a little, touching the START icon, wondering at the simplicity of the design, the tightness of the strings of code needed to make it look like it's shining under a light that isn't there. At his touch, a tiled list of applications appears, and he toggles to a more structured view. "You said 4GB of RAM when we spoke, but is there an option to expand?"

"With the advent of new apps and more complex programs, 4GB usually isn't enough. 6GB tends to be industry standard these days; if you're going to use these for more administrative tasks it's probably all you'll need."

Udon nods. His glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back up with his middle finger. "Multi-core processor?"

"Of course," Shinju scoffs, offended. "6-core."

"I want 8."

"We'll discuss it."

Konohamaru fixes him with a wide-eyed, betrayed stare. "What the hell are you _saying_? RAM? Cores? _Gigabits_?"

"Giga _bytes_ ," Udon corrects absently, swiping his fingers up and down, gliding over the matte screen with ease. He'd prefer a semigloss finish, to be honest; he'll have to see if Shinju'll throw in the upgrade at no extra charge. If not, he's prepared to fight for it.

When he lifts his head, Udon's not surprised to find nostrils flaring at him, fists clenching and unclenching, broad shoulders trembling with barely-leashed rage. Konohamaru feels things with his entire body. On the day he becomes Hokage, he'll probably put himself in a coma through sheer happiness.  

No one in the room needs any of their finely-honed skills to know that an explosion is imminent, so their Hokage heads it off at the pass by throwing a friendly arm around Konohamaru's shoulders, draping one of his ridiculous sleeves over half his body.

"C'mon, Konohamaru—think of how easy this is gonna make things! Hell, I might even get home in time for dinner one day. I'm pretty sure Himawari has no clue who I even am."

Perfect. A little physical affection and attention from his adopted older brother and Hokage has never failed to soothe even the worst of Konohamaru's huffs.

Until now, naturally. He can feel the side of his head practically start to smoke, so he pulls his attention away from the hum and whir of the servos with only a little regret. "Konohamaru-kun, you're not being fair."

"Fair?! You wanna talk _fair_? It isn't _fair_ to bring one of those-those-those _mechanical monstrosities_ into a goddamn ninja village!"

Udon smiles slyly. "You've been studying your old vocab books again, Konohamaru-kun."

Cheeks pink, Konohamaru throws an arm out to the side with dramatic flair, eyes flashing a beautiful rage-tinged blue and teeth clenched. Somewhere, Gai-sensei just burst into manly tears and doesn't know why. "We have our ways, Udon, and they're good ways. Why do you want to change them?"

"That's the nature of life, Konohamaru-kun: things change. Times change." Udon shrugs helplessly.

"Not like this. This isn't how we work!"

"Isn't it?" Shinobi are resilient, are fast and responsive, smart, programmed for certain tasks… "This is a tool, Konohamaru-kun, nothing more. It's going to make us a more efficient breed. "

Konohamaru's nostrils flare and he points at Shinju. "It's gonna make us like _them_."

She gives him an unimpressed sniff.

"Hey now," Naruto says, smiling, confused, hands up in a plea for peace. "Civilians aren't as bad as all that—"

Whatever Konohamaru's problem with the computer is, it can wait until they can speak privately with the Hokage. All this is doing is making Konoha's ninja look like whiny children; it's not going to take much more before Shinju snatches the 8GB right out from under him, and that's absolutely not an option. Time to put a stop to this before it goes any further. "We're in a new age—a _digital_ age; the world doesn't use brushes and ink anymore—it's all zeros and ones. If we don't want the world to leave us behind, we have to—as Shinju-san said—adapt."

It dangles between them, too out of reach for him to grab and shove back in his mouth, the worst kind of mistake, but he can't find it in him to apologize. He doesn't want to, but he has to.

Before he can, the shaking in Konohamaru's shoulders eases. "That a fact?"

Oh, here it comes. "I didn't mean—"

"Who the hell are you to say what shinobi need to do? You don't know a damn thing. You're just a _genin_."

Udon knows it's coming from a place of hurt, that Konohamaru is lashing out, but it still hits like the fist he's never felt. The hitai-ate feels heavier than it ever has, dragging his head down, the band biting into the skin of his temples, the knot pressing hard against his skull. It'd take no effort at all to rip it off, quick like a bandage, but he bites down the urge, instead lifting his chin as high as he can and staring right into Konohamaru's admittedly abashed face.

"Yes, I am. I'm a shinobi who doesn't have to be. Which is more than I can say about you."

Konohamaru mutters something, toeing the floor, and won't meet his eyes.

Growling, Moegi slams her shin into the back of Konohamaru's legs, spilling him to the floor, and giving him a swift kick to the ass for good measure. "Konohamaru-chan, you're way out of line! Apologize to Udon-chan _right now_."

"What's wrong with being a genin?" Naruto looks genuinely hurt. "I never actually got beyond it, y'know."

Shinju drums her fingers and gives Udon a mildly uncomfortable look. "Should we reschedule?"

Taking a deep breath in through his nose and exhaling slowly, Udon shakes his head and turns back to the computer. Turns his back to Konohamaru. "No, not at all. Walk us through the office suite components. Shikamaru, you'll be interested in some of these."

By the time Shinju is finished explaining the spreadsheet component, Konohamaru is gone.

 

+

 

The moon has crested the Great Monument by the time he gets his key in the door, a sheaf of papers tucked under one arm, Shinju's business card stapled to the front sheet. She's giving them the 8-core, but no semigloss screens. He could probably push the point, considering Konoha is a huge account, but he knows when to pick his battles.

Like now. He knows he's not alone before he even opens the door, but he doesn't so much as bat an eyelash as he walks inside, flicking on one of the lamps, bathing the main room in soft yellow. Where he sits on the couch, Konohamaru is cast half in shadow, the line of his mouth a knife's slash.

"Have you been sitting in the dark all this time like a creep?" Udon inquires lightly, moving across the room to turn on another lamp. "You couldn't be bothered to make tea, though, huh?"

He glances around, looking for a place to put the packet down, somewhere he won't knock it over when he's trying to get ready in the morning, when his hunt is thwarted by two arms sliding around his waist from behind.

"Konoham—"

"I'm sorry."

Udon sighs. "I'm not _that_ broken up about the tea."

"No, about earlier," Konohamaru murmurs and presses his forehead to Udon's shoulder. "I was being an ass."

Udon hums low in his throat, leaning back against him, hands coming up to cover the ones laced over his stomach; they stand there for a moment, swaying from side to side, slowly, barely moving.

After a moment, the gentle rocking ceases. "You know, the least you could do is disagree."

"What, about you being an ass? Why would I do that?" Udon tilts his head back to rest against Konohamaru's shoulder, nose brushing his neck. "You absolutely were. Over a _computer_ , no less."

"Whatever," Konohamaru grumbles. His arms tighten.

"Why _are_ you so dead-set against it, anyway? It's not like we all stop being shinobi just because we have a faster way of logging mission hours and schedules," Udon says. His stomach whines a little, and he can't remember when he last ate. Noonish, maybe.

"It's just…" He can feel the rise and fall of Konohamaru's shoulders. "We've worked just fine without them all these years."

"And we'll work better _with_ them going forward. What's this really about?"

His legs are starting to complain about being locked in one position by the time Konohamaru gets his thoughts in order—it always takes him a little longer than most people, if only because he has so many at once—and he knows when it happens because a hot puff of air hits the back of his ear, a clamor for attention.

"Grandpa… he once told me that the world wouldn't need ninja someday, that it was moving too fast for us to keep up. That the civilian world would start to spill into ours until one would eat the other… and it's gonna be us, isn't it?" Konohamaru drags in a shuddering breath. "It's only a few computers here and there, right? But it's not. I've seen the phones. The clothes. It's already starting."

"Konohamaru…"

"You're a shinobi who doesn't have to be," Konohamaru whispers. "But I'm not. What does that mean for me?"

Udon closes his eyes, thinking of the little kids he sees in the streets wearing shirts adorned with cartoon characters instead of clan symbols. Three doors down from Ichiraku is a restaurant that sells colorful, sugary things he's never heard of, and people gather to take pictures with the same device that they call each other with. The requests for shinobi assistance have dwindled in the last three years, and the projected number of active jounin for next year has been halved. Tenten has been making noise about closing her shop.

Change has come to Konoha, but the things that count will never bow to it.

"It means that you'll suck it up and do your best, like always," Udon says, pushing at Konohamaru's fingers until they lift from his belly to lace with his own. "You may not remember this because of the scary computer, but you _were_ taught—first and foremost, shinobi or not—to never give up. I'll be here to help you when you fuck up, like always."

There's a tense moment where Udon thinks an argument is forthcoming, but then Konohamaru sags against him, breathing out slowly. "Like always, huh?"

"Used to be that _nothing_ —not age, not war, not anything—could bring Sarutobi Konohamaru down. You're telling me that emailing a message instead of handwriting it and tying it to a bird is going to be the thing that finally breaks you?" Udon snorts. "Your uncle would punt you through a wall if he knew."

Konohamaru laughs, a choked, grateful thing. "He really would."

"Shinobi are those who endure," Udon says gently. "So, endure. Spreadsheets aren't anywhere near as hard to learn as a _katon_ jutsu. You'll get it eventually."

"Thanks, Udon." It's punctuated with a soft kiss to his jaw, as sweet as Konohamaru is capable of in emotionally fraught moments like this. If anything, Udon should be grateful that nothing's broken, or that the moment is going to be allowed to simmer until it spends itself. A quiet ember of a thing—Udon's favorite kind.

"So, when she unveiled the thing? You never make noises like that for _me_."

Because Konohamaru had to try and ruin every one of those precious moments at least once.

"Get off me," Udon sighs.

"You're not denying it!"

"I'm going to make tea."

"Get your fancy computer to do it for you."

 _Shinobi_ means "one who endures." Whatever the word for "one who gracefully accepts change and grows from it" is, it certainly isn't _Konohamaru_.

 


End file.
